


Reciprocity

by JaqofSpades



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Smuckleberry Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:31:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logic, dude.  He totally fucking used it (and, yeah, he'd had himself in hand at the time, but he does his best thinking that way).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reciprocity

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for first season up to Mash Up. Arguably A/U before the end of Mash Up :) Written for Smuckleberry Week on tumblr: day one, masturbation.

***

Finn's balloon goes pop and it makes him grin just to hear it, because he knows Quinn's about to go nuclear. That shit's all kinds of funny, and even though Satan's ragging on him about popping their own fucking balloon, they share a grin and wait for World War fucking Three (Celibacy Club edition).

But then little Rachel Berry is talking, burbling on about studies and teen sexuality, and oh shit – contra-fucking-ception! Quinn's gonna lose it, so that's the only reason he's watching, really, to catch the Queen Bitch's reaction. Got nothing to do with the way Berry's big, juicy lips are set into a hard line, or how those huge brown eyes are spitting anger and annoyance. She's holding herself ramrod straight, her chin up and proud, but her hands are clenching and unclenching as if she's fighting to control herself.

He reckons she lost the battle, because all of a sudden she's talking again.

“Wanna know a dirty little secret they don't want you to know? Girls want sex just as much as guys do!” she says. At the time, he's all “hell yes!” but then he starts to think about it, later. And, legit, he can't stop thinking about it. 

Logic, dude. He totally fucking used it (and, yeah, he'd had himself in hand at the time, but he does his best thinking that way). 

Girls want sex, she'd said.

Berry wants sex.

Berry's a virgin.

Berry's full of anger and enthusiasm and passion ...

He'd sat up in bed so fucking fast he'd nearly done himself a damage. Not too much, though, because the Puckermonster was all over this.

Berry _totally_ gets off.

The mental picture hits him like a fucking revelation, and he's shaking and shuddering, coming in long, hot streams into one hand as the other grips the bedsheets for something to anchor him to the universe, or reality, or _something_. Because Berry's just blown his sanity all to hell.

His brain is fucking fried afterwards, but there's still a thought or two jangling around. Mostly, high rotation of Rachel Berry, masturbating, but the other comes up a few times and it legit shocks him.

He's totally gonna lock that shit down.

*

Step one is to stop with the slushies. The first time, she'd been wearing this little white shirt, sort of filmy. Just add water, y'know? The grape slushie he'd picked up with lunch was mostly down to the watery dregs, and he'd never been good at saying no to his urges. So he threw it straight at her chest and the fucking payoff was _epic_. She was wearing some sort of see-through bra, brown nipples peeking up at him and he's fucking transfixed, right there. He pushed himself right up close (those other fuckers could slushy their own hot girls) and whispered “Glee freak” into her ear as she wiped shards of ice from her cleavage and fucking _vibrated_ with anger. After that – bam. Addicted. (Even if she never wore the sexy, see-through bra again.)

Step two: join Glee. Acafellas hadn't delivered the goods – he'd forgotten that two teachers in the group, and a bunch more in the audience would cramp his style – and he wanted to keep an eye on Quinn, too. Mostly, though, joining Glee was his passport to locking down Rachel Berry.

He figures he needs to put in some groundwork and gather intel, so he's playing it cool in the choir room, getting to know the team, turning on the old Puckerman charm. Watching her turn the doe eyes on Hudson is a downer, but he's also seeing a whole bunch of sides to Rachel Berry he didn't know existed. (And most of them suggest she'd be dynamite in the sack.) He's always liked the little skirts and knee socks, but all of a sudden, her sexy isn't remote and kinda kinky, but … right there, in his face. Heating him up. And it's weird, because she gets him hottest when she's loose and relaxed and having fun – watching her rock out to that Nelly tune is a treat, and not just because she'd complimented him on his mad guitar skillz afterwards. (Okay, so she'd said “very proficient” and “impressive musicality", but, you know. Translation.)

He dreams about her a lot, but on Sunday night, when she climbs through his window fully clothed and fucking virginal, that's when he knows it's more than just a dream. It's a mission from God, and he steps things up the very next morning. He buys her a slushie – grape, her favourite - and offers to drive her home that afternoon, so they can talk mash-ups. 

He knows what _he_ wants to mash up, but he's got a very specific goal in mind. Not his usual goal, so it's not his usual strategy. He wants to get her off, yes, but he really, really wants to see her get herself off, and that's gonna take trust. So, the first time he touches her, he starts slow.

Hands on her face, stroking her cheekbones, a foot of space between them, kinda slow. They're in his truck, and she's been shooting him small, puzzled smiles all day, and it's probably too soon, but he wants to make it clear that he's into her, but he's not gonna push. Small kisses, his tongue tracing the contours of her lips, little licks, little sips, but no further. She opens her mouth, touches her tongue to his, and he moans a little to show her that _fuck yeah_ , he likes that, but he's gonna stop anyway. He hovers for a minute, breath playing over her lips, then closes that exasperated mouth with the pressure of his own lips, before shifting back across behind the wheel. He's making it clear: she's a virgin, he knows it, and he's being respectful. (That, and he wants to drive her out of her mind.)

By Wednesday, she's chosen some Christina Aguilera song, and they're practicing in her bedroom, doing it over and over, and over again. She never misses one high note, either, so his head is ringing, and he needs a break. And it's a good fucking idea, because her eyes have been sliding all over him for the past hour, and she's shifting about, throwing her body into it, and watching him as she poses in front of the mirror. He cuts right to the chase and asks her to make out with him.

This time, he's gonna let her set the pace and see just how far she wants to go. She's on top of him and grinding within minutes, mouth wide open and their tongues and teeth and lips tangling together in a way that's hotter than the fucking sun, even as she pushes his hands away from her boobs. For some reason, she isn't so worried about where they might go under her skirt, and he rubs all over her hip, and slides a finger inside the waistband of her skirt to tickle her belly before slipping one hand between her thighs. 

The pads of his fingers are zigzagging their way towards the Promised Land when she stops him, gasping his name through a jagged breath.

She doesn't actually say stop, just “Noah!”, but he's a good guy, so shifts his hand back to neutral territory, smoothing it up and down her back.

“S'okay, baby. Just wanna make you feel good,” he whispers. “No pressure.” Except, of course, the volcano in his pants looking to erupt in T-2 seconds. But he can handle that.

“You have. You are. It's just … fast,” she says, offering him a shy, innocent smile you don't really expect from someone who bites down hard on your lip. “And maybe a bit scary, too.”

“Not scary, babe! Totally not scary. You can trust me - I won't make you do anything you don't want to do,” he protests. Then she bites her lip and looks up at him through her lashes, and for once, her voice is so soft he nearly doesn't hear her.

“The problem is the things you make me want to do,” she says, and the idea just freezes him. She's not the first girl he's seduced – she's not even the tenth girl – but she's the first to say it, to admit to wanting him, and there's a weird power to it, that honesty. He stares at her – eyes nearly black with arousal, cheeks pink and hands fluttering about him like birds unsure of where to land – and decides to honour it. Give it back.

“I wanna watch you get yourself off,” he blurts, and that? Was NOT part of the plan.

*

Twenty minutes later, he's sitting in his truck staring up at the light in her window. He's not used to having his game derailed by anything, but an attack of fucking honesty? Shit stinks.

She'd taken it better than he would'a thought, though. Sure, the handprint on his cheek was pretty vivid, but before she'd slapped him? Her eyes had gone all wide, and her mouth opened a little, and sure, it might have been just one tiny slice of a fucking fraction of a second, but … she thought about it. She might even have pictured it.

Fucking hot. And he's hard again. And out of tissues in the truck. Fuck his life.

*

A leading man? Hells yes, he is. Sweet Caroline has all the girls in the room gooey for him, and Rachel is beaming like she won the boyfriend lottery. She lays her tiny little hand on his arm when he returns to his seat next to her, and doesn't let go until they reach his locker, two hours later. He kisses her in public for the first time then, and yeah, fuckers, you are not hallucinating. Me and my hot little Jewish American princess are gonna rule this place, he thinks, and you can all just bow the fuck down right now.

He's wrong.

A slushie to the face, it turns out, fucking hurts. It's in his eyes, the hawk, all over his shirt – even dripping down his back and into his underpants.

But it's the humiliation that's the worst, he tells her. And apologises. He means every word, wants this moment to mean something, but then she hops on his knee and his cock's all “girl! Short skirt! Get the fuck up in there, man!” He tells it to calm the fuck down, that this isn't about his fucking game anymore. This is just Rachel being a good person, and he's appreciating that, fuck you very much.

He doesn't know if he can come back to Glee, he tells her. He's weak, and he likes football. And being popular.

She understands.

(Maybe that's why he chooses Glee. Because someone in this fucking school actually understands).

*

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“What you said, that night at my place. About … watching me.”

All he can do is squawk like fucking parrot, because she's not just asking because she's vaguely interested or some shit. She's biting her lip and has a calculating glint in her eye, and he's still getting to know her, but … she likes to plan.

“Why?”

She rubs her thighs together under the little plaid skirt (he totally has x-ray eyes for that shit) and adjusts the collar of her shirt before lifting her gaze to his.

“I thought we might like to explore that. Together. In the interests of furthering my knowledge of matters sexual, Noah.”

He forgets to breathe, and the world blurs around the edges. She kicks him, and is arching an eyebrow. She wants him to say something?

“Ohhh. Yeah. Fuck yeah.”

Normally, she'd say “language, Noah!” or at least frown at him. So he know's she's distracted when she just pins him with a glance and whispers one last tease before she heads for class.

“Reciprocity, Noah. Look it up.”

He does, and his mother's dictionary flies across the room when he punches the air.

*

Her fathers are in Columbus for the weekend, she tells him, and he wants to get over there with her right fucking now, but he's agreed to babysit his sister on Friday night, and has two pools booked for Saturday. He promises her he'll be done by four, though, and when the time comes, he's standing on her doorstep at three thirty.

“Done early,” he explains as she ushers him into the silent house. Somewhere, he can hear something playing, but it's upstairs and not on the cool-ass widescreen in the living room.

“True Blood,” she offers. “I'm rewatching the second season,” and he nods, because shit's good. But she's deluded if she thinks that's what he's here to watch, so he pulls her in tight and plants his hands deep in the back pockets of her jeans. “Hi,” he breathes into her ear, and tugs on the lobe with his teeth. She moans in response, and leads him to the stairs.

He follows her up, his head full of her – the way her hair swings just above her ass as she climbs, the curve of her hips in those jeans, and some sort of perfume, not flowery or sweet like most girls, but heavier, a bit spicy. His mouth starts to water.

“Hope you're not planning on keeping those jeans on,” he says, because, you know, honesty. Worked before, and really, if she's setting him up for disappointment, he kinda wants to know now.

She laughs – laughs! - and his cock jumps. He thought it only did that when she sang, but apparently, he's good to go for any kind of Rachel-voice.

“I've just come home from the mall. Fabric shopping with Kurt and Mercedes.” she says. “They refused to go with me unless I wore 'normal' clothes.”

He frowns – she sounds hurt, and he's heard the sort of shit the Ladyboy and his hag give her about her clothes.

“Newsflash, babe. They ain't normal. Sexy schoolgirl look is sexy.” And that's the longest discussion he will ever have about fashion, Puck vows.

“Didja buy anything ... interesting?”

“Oh, I found this magnificent collection of Sondheim scores – I have most of them individually, but to find them in one book is just a treat,” she spins around to tell him. He tries not to smile and backs her into her bedroom.

“Not what I'm interested in, Rach. I was kinda thinking of something smaller. And lacier,” and drops his eyes down to the deep vee of her red t-shirt, then lower, to the waist of her jeans. Button-fly, he realises, and his hand is moving to toy with the top button before he can stop it. Her breathing ratchets up, and colour floods her face, even as her head jerks up proudly.

“Oh. Nothing like that. I thought … we would be naked, at least partially. But obviously I'm inexperienced and have very little idea of what to do in this situation.” Her hands are beginning to flutter, and this is bad, bad, _bad_ , because Rachel Berry needs to be good at fucking everything, and his game up and vanished about the time she said “naked.”

“Uh. Shit. Rachel. Naked? Fuuuuuck.”

He wants to knock his head against her bedpost.

“Oh. Is that – good?”

“Babe. The best. Dreams are made of that shit.”

The smile she gives him is miles wide and tells him that, yes, Puck's back in the game. He's so far past messin' around now, he pushes her back onto the bed and yeah, that kiss might have been a little desperate. She's writhing under his hands and he needs to get her as hot as he is, so he starts to rasp his fingernails back and forth on the inseam of her jeans, working higher and higher until he's right there. She's panting a little, and her hips have begun to jerk, and he wants to see her get herself off, but fuck if he's stopping now, so hooks his fingers over the seam and scratches, hard. Rachel makes a sound as if she's choking, and she's knawing on her fucking fist as she moves with it, undulates, and then screws her eyes shut as she comes. It's his favourite thing to do, watching a girl come, and he takes the image and files it – Rachel Berry. Big fucking gold star.

He lies down next to her on the bed and pulls her into his arms as she recovers. Her first time with someone else, he figures – he's not a pussy for wanting her to feel good about it. Not a pussy at all, to push his nose into her hair, and surround himself in Rachel-smell, and just – take a moment, as Schue would say.

Her eyes are huge and glassy when she turns to him, and he suspects there were a few tears.

“You don't have do anything more, Rachel. It's okay,” he whispers, and he's shocked to find he actually means it.

She lets out a watery giggle and slides a hand down to hover over the tent in his jeans.

“I'm okay. It was just – intense,” she says. “Doesn't mean I want to stop.”

She sits herself up on one elbow and looks down into his face. “Can I tell you a secret? I've been curious, for so long. About what boys do. I've always wanted to see it. So when you said that ...”

He grins. “Reciprocity.”

She drops a kiss on his nose, and takes a deep breath before moving her hand down onto his cock.

“To take a page from your notebook? Fuck yeah,” she giggles.

*

“So. Naked?”

“Hmmm,” she murmurs, hand inside his jeans, stroking him through his boxer shorts. He's fucking aching, now, and she's already come once, and he doesn't mean to be a bastard, but he really needs to move this on. Like right fucking now.

He moves her hand away and straddles her, unbuttoning her jeans and already beginning to pull.

“Noah!” Fuck. His. Life.

“My shoes, Noah. You'll never get them off unless you take my shoes off first.”

Oh. You'd think he was some sort of fucking amateur, forgetting that. Fine. Shoes gone. Jeans the fuck off. And … yes. Tiny little bikinis. Long, long bare legs. Acres of skin that he just wants to taste …

Next time.

“So, how are we going to do this?”

Fucking logistics? Now? Wait – he's thought about this. Once or twice, last night. (All night.)

“Together. At the same time. You up there,” he slides her up against the headboard, and nudges her knees apart, then props himself against the foot of the bed. “Me down here.” 

“With my legs – spread? Wide open?” He nods, and hopes his smirk isn't going to derail things.

“Kinda the point, baby. I want to see … everything. I bet you have the prettiest pussy.” 

Best. Blush. Ever. 

“And you're going to be naked, too?”

He shucks his jeans and boxers, and then peels off his shirt. “Yup.” It's not cool to beg, he tells himself, so he leans back again, puts on his most relaxed expression, and conjures up images of dead kittens and ugly teachers. She's taking off her panties, though, so it's pretty much a wasted effort as he eyes the neat little thatch of hair, already wet around the edges of her slit. A glimpse of glistening pink nearly brings him over, and he groans so loud her eyes fly straight to his.

“Baby. Please. Touch yourself.” He's beyond talking, so fists himself lightly in demonstration, his palm skimming over the sensitive skin in a way that feels good, but is mostly for show. 

She watches avidly, so he speeds up a little, and her own hand creeps down her belly. Her knees aren't really far enough apart to give him the eyeful he wants, but he keeps quiet and smiles encouragingly. She starts with a tentative slide, down over her mound with her fingers together flat, then fans them a little, rubbing harder. He can see the moment her middle finger drags over her clit – her mouth drops open, and her knees move apart, and … that's what he wants. That's what he's been fucking dreaming of since putting two and two together in Celibacy Club. That's the fucking money shot and he's gonna have to stop or …

He's coming anyway, which is pretty fucking embarrassing, because they've been doing this for all of three minutes. He rides it out, looking her in the eye the whole time, then leans up over her to grab the box of tissues.

“Keep going,” he urges when she seems startled by his sudden proximity. So after he's cleaned up a bit, he sits back again, but not right back. His legs are bracketing her spread knees, and he can see fucking everything now: clit, two sets of rosy little lips, the way her fingers are sliding in her own wetness, and below, a hungry little mouth, opening and closing as if begging for something.

“Do you ever use your fingers?” he asks, and she frantically shakes her head, no. She doesn't stop, though, wide circles over the whole area with her full hand, one finger tight on her clit, but they're drifting closer to that hungry spot, now, and he's willing them to curve inside. She's got a frustrated look on her face that tells him she's not quite there, she's reaching for it, but not falling over the edge, and he wants to help her out so fucking badly it hurts. 

“You've got this,” he says instead, and he's gone from soft to hard in record time, watching this. He sure as hell needs something to do with his hands, so he strokes himself softly, because he doesn't want any distractions from the main event. She's got his full fucking attention, and he wants it to stay that way.

She's tossing her head now, and that glossy brown hair is caught up on the white headboard and he just wants to look at her like that, all mussed and rumpled and fucking surrendering to what's happening. She's not good at surrender, he figures, not good at letting go, but she needs it more than most and he's forcing her to just reach out and take it.

“C'mon Rachel. Damn, girl,” he mutters, as he watches her arch her hips towards the ceiling, and his fingers fucking itch to touch her. “Let it go, baby, just grab it,” he groans, and shuffles even closer to her, hands on her knees, pressing them further apart, eyes riveted to her core.

Her fingers are working fast now, jerky and uncoordinated, and that long middle finger has left her clit and moved lower, he notices.

“Please, baby,” he begs, and all the blood leaves his brain as she slides it inside of herself, carefully at first, but then with increasing speed and force. They're almost in sync, he realises, her moans and his, rising together as her hips buck wildly and he jacks his cock, once, twice, and then, she screams. She's coming and he's so fixated on that, so desperate to get closer and fuck, crawl _inside_ of her, that his own orgasm nearly passes him by, a half-hearted, stuttering thing compared to the cataclysm happening next to him.

He's never seen anything like it, and he makes a vow. He's gonna do whatever it takes to see that again. Sing, dance, make a fool of himself how-fucking-ever … anything, to see that again.

Being a good boyfriend's probably the best way to start, though, so he climbs up her bed and pulls her exhausted body into against his chest. Her eyes are closed, but he can tell she's pretty embarrassed by the whole thing. S'ok. He's got this.

She's his girl now, and he's gonna sex the embarrassed right outta her.

_fin_

 

***  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction written for personal enjoyment rather than profit. No infringement on the rights of the intellectual property owners is intended.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for Glee, so I'd appreciate feedback, especially as to characterisation and dialogue.


End file.
